Of (Dare)devils and (Demi)gods
by KB49
Summary: Matt doesn't know how he got on this radar, but he knows it can't end well.
1. Chapter 1

Matt doesn't know who this man is, but he knows he's unlike anyone else he's ever encountered. Or, hopefully, ever will encounter, if the chill down his spine is anything to go by. The man isn't saying anything, and while it's a tad unusual for someone to sit themselves down to share his café table without so much as a "May I?" it probably shouldn't make him feel this… not threatened, exactly. It's as though every fiber in his body is prepared to spring into action at any moment.

He can feel the man considering him over a porcelain (and they don't use porcelain here, but Matt could hear the difference in the clink of the - silver, also odd - spoon as it stirred in a honey that Matt's never smelled before) teacup. Nothing is familiar. He doesn't recognize the scents or the rustle of fabric, and even the - my G-d, even the heartbeat is wrong. It's fast - too fast - but not in a way that signifies weakness, excitement, or illness. Matt can't help but tense with dread that this is _normal_ for this - _is he even_ \- is he _human_?

He focuses on what is familiar. The shape is human, if tall and lean and exuding quietly lethal power. The posture is somehow perfectly erect without being stiff, and Matt feels practically slumped in comparison. The eyes are definitely on him, watching and evaluating. It's like Stick all over again, and the thought is far from comforting.

"Hello?" Matt tries for a nervous smile as he says it, but he can tell it's a failure before he's even finished nudging the facial muscles into place. His new companion, on the other hand, positively beams. It gives Matt the impression of a sunny day in the Arctic.

"I hope you do not think me rude," the man replies, in a way which manages perfect sincerity despite Matt detecting that his tablemate is profoundly unconcerned with Matt's preferences on the subject. "The seat was available and you intrigue me."

Murdock has the thought that this is not someone it would be healthy to intrigue too deeply. He holds still and tries to chase down why he thinks that. There's no threat here. No hint of a weapon. But he can't shake the feeling he's caught the attention of an uncaged jaguar. "Well," Matt sallies, "I really doubt I'm all that interesting."

The stranger hums. "I disagree."

"Free country."

An odd smile, and Matt doesn't know why. It would set his teeth on edge if he weren't being so careful not to respond. "Yes. Isn't it."

Not a question. Not a statement. Matt tilts his head, decides to go on offense, just a little. "Where are you from? I don't recognize the accent."

The smile widens into something like… satisfied? Strange. "No, you wouldn't. Not many of my people visit here."

The barista calls Matt's name, then, and he excuses himself to retrieve the cappuccinos and latte he's taking to the office.

That night, as he clotheslines an attempted rapist, Daredevil is momentarily distracted by an odd earthy scent he's only encountered once before - that morning, in the coffee shop. His senses are on alert as he subdues the criminal and readies him for police pick-up, but the smell fades without a sound to accompany its departure.


	2. Chapter 2

Bringing fancy coffees in is not something Matt can afford to do very often, and there's a perfectly functional coffee pot at the office, so it's not until the following Monday that Matt detects that odd odor and foreign cloth. On a whim, he changes his own order from to-go to sit-down and asks the barista to hold off on the other drinks for half an hour. This time he's the one sitting at the stranger's table.

"Still visiting?" Matt asks.

"Oh, I imagine I will be here for a while. See the sights. Take care of some business, perhaps."

Matt's a little proud that he doesn't shiver at the emphasis placed on "business", though he really, really wants to. "And what is it you do?"

"What I like, mostly." There's a pause to reconsider. "What I think is best."

Matt smiles. "For whom?"

And maybe that was a mistake, because that too-fast heartbeat kicks up a notch and the man's grin becomes brittle. Matt can feel cold, of all things, rising from the seat across from him. What was clearly becoming a threat is quickly gone, though, and Matt feels the need to explain before it returns.

"I was teasing," he says. "It's something we do here." Jesus, this guy's keyed up. You wouldn't know it to look at him, Matt's sure. He doesn't know why, but Matt's next sentence is said softly: "Not so much where you're from, though, huh?"

A laugh. Strained and loaded with memories. "Oh, yes. There is quite a bit of that in my land."

"Murdock!" is called, and Matt gets up for his coffee. He thinks about what he's going to say when he gets back, but surprises himself when he sits down and blurts, "What do you want with me?"

The voice is cool and considering, but not offended. "What makes you think I want something? You sat with me this morning. I did not seek you out."

And Matt just _knows_ this man is waiting for something, looking for something, but Matt's tired and a little bruised on his left side and running out of patience for this. So he takes a breath and centers himself and reminds himself not to mess this up because he suspects it's very important, though he has no earthly idea why.

"Okay. Fine. So you're just sitting here with your tea that you did not buy here in a cup they do not serve in here talking in riddles to a blind man you don't know. Maybe you _intrigue_ me."

And there's that pleased feeling wafting over the table at him again.

"Well, blind man, you are slightly less boring than the mass of people I encounter in this land."

"You're easily bored? That's your problem?"

A put-upon sigh. "One of many, I am afraid."

"I'm not a clown. I'm not here to amuse you."

He really didn't mean to say it that tartly, but Matt hears approval when the man says, "And what are you here to do, then? Fight the evils of this world?"

Matt starts a little, though he tries not to. So this is the man he sniffed out near the alley last week. And he _knows_. Somehow, he _knows_.

"It's what lawyers do," he tries to cover. "Well, some of us, anyway."

"Is that what the children call it these days? And here I thought trial by combat was no longer the fashion." Before Matt can respond, can try to look confused or laugh it off, the stranger is continuing. "There is no call for alarm. Not regarding _that_. I do not disapprove and I want nothing from you." A sly smile that Matt actually _hears_ , then, "At the moment. I spoke truth before: I am intrigued." A pause as the not-man sips his foreign tea. It occurs to Matt that being at a loss for words is not good practice for an attorney. But he remains silent. Waits. But the stranger is more patient than Matt.

"What do I call you?"

"Are you asking for my name?" Again, Matt can feel the path diverging beneath his feet and knows he must choose wisely.

"Would you give it? A real one?"

"It might be amusing to give you a name you would recognize, if only to see what you might attempt. But a real name? What would that even be?" The man is leaning in, and Matt feels pulled as though by gravity to do the same. "What is your name, Matthew Murdock?" Matt doesn't know if you can be hypnotized by voice alone, but this sure feels like it. All he knows is breathing in, breathing out, and a low, clear bell of a voice. "Tell me: are you the devil who takes lives and gives pain? Are you the daring and dashing angel of the alleyways guarding these mere mortals from harm? Perhaps you are but a madman playing at roles greater than you ken. A child, a villain, a cripple," the man continues as a pressure builds in Matt's head and burns his eyes. "… an orphan, a tool, a scapegoat, a monster."

There's a cool presence on either side of Matt's head, and he leans into long, soft, chilled fingers. The voice is clear and blue and deep and there are twin fires of green drawing him forward. It's a force of nature, and Matt's always been a city boy. He's lost. He needs the stench of tarred roofs in summer, the wail of a half dozen sirens, the skittering of rats in the walls to feel at home. This peace is beautiful and alien and he _wants_ it so fiercely he knows it can't be good. Nothing he wants is without a steep, steep price.

Matt shoves himself away from the stillness and back into the overwhelming cacophony of his real world. This hell is where he belongs, and he clings to every sensory overload in a two-mile radius. He's standing, his chair tipped against the wall, his paper cup of coffee still teetering on the table's edge, his hands clenched at his sides, breathing hard through his nose. No one notices the disturbance, which is yet another _wrong_ , _wrong_ , _wrong_ screaming through his brain.

The man - not-man - green eyes - _how the_ hell _do I know that_?! A slim, powerful hand retrieves the coffee cup before it can even think about toppling over and sets it easily in front of Matt. "Well, then," he says, "that was… rewarding." Matt wants to launch himself over the table and tear out this creature's spine and he wants to run away whimpering and he wants to beg to be taken back to that heavenly cool stillness, so of course what he does is fumble the chair back onto its four legs and sits back down to aim his sightless glare at those impossible green eyes.

"What are you?" His voice isn't steady - not even close - but considering that he has no idea what the hell just happened, he's counting it a win just to be able to string three coherent words together. In order, even.

"I am something your kind had, until very recently, forgotten existed. But your world is changing. The inevitable foolishness of you creatures has caused Old Things to turn their sights this way, and I have debts to repay." Matt could taste blood at the word "debts." Alien and gritty blood. He could feel ash at his fingertips and hear echoes of wordless screams of pain and smell the stench of entrails ground beneath a broken body.

"I have come to my decision, Matthew Murdock, the daring devil of Hell's Kitchen. We will speak again."

The thing was gone, then, between one moment and the next, and Matt puts his head in his hands and shakes.


	3. Chapter 3

Matt's never really liked keeping secrets, but he's pretty good at it. And really, what would he say, anyway? He can barely even stand to think about Not-Man and the terrifying implications of, well, everything about it. It occurs to him that it doesn't say anything good about the situation that the possibility he's gone completely 'round-the-bend there-must-have-been-a-door-there-in-the-wall dude-where's-my-white-jacket insane is one of the less frightening scenarios he runs through. And of course, even though he can't stand to think about it, he _can't stop thinking about it_. It's like picking at a scab, and Matt's always been an abysmal failure at leaving things be.

He smells Not-Man occasionally, though he can never pick out a defining gait or anything else to use to track him. He heard his voice, once, for just a moment. It was on the other end of someone's cell phone. Smooth and cultured, there and gone, and whoever he was speaking with just said, "Yes, sir," and dripped fear before dropping the phone in the street and hailing a taxi to the docks. Matt almost followed, but he had a deposition to attend. Also? He didn't really want to know.

He never hears a whisper of involvement in crime from Not-Man that he can detect. Not that Matt figured someone/thing that powerful would bother with the petty misery that infects Hell's Kitchen. So he really doesn't expect it when Not-Man lounges next to him on a rooftop as Matt's trying to stem the flow of blood from a knife that got under his mask. Matt's alone and then he's not, and that foreign leafy scent is right up in his nose. If he weren't faint from blood loss, he'd have had a heart attack, he's sure.

"Oh, this will not do." And he actually sounds nicer than Stick, now, if just as disappointed. Instinctively, Matt tries to parry the hand reaching for him, but it's pointless. The cold fingers are calming as they slide through hot blood and find the torn skin, tissue, vein, trace over the wound, and numb the pain. Matt reaches up to check for himself, but Not-Man's other hand is steel around his wrist, pulling it away.

"Do. Not. Touch." The hands are gone, then, and the stranger is wiping the blood from Matt's neck and inspecting his work. Matt's head hurts and his stomach is icy and he thinks he might throw up if he doesn't fall asleep first.

"Children, the lot of you. Fighting over your toys and your philosophies even as your doom approaches." There's a flask of something shoved under Matt's nose. "Drink. You will need it." It's herby and sweet and burns just a little, but in all the right ways, and Matt thinks he just might be able to thank his new rooftop medic as soon as his head stops spinning.

Although, "How'd you -" is all he manages before he loses track of what he was going to say.

It doesn't seem to matter, though. Not-man does not appear to be in a listening mood. He's up and pacing. "Earth's greatest heroes. The realms will be crushed, bled dry, and burned at the altar in service of forces larger than any of you can even _comprehend_ , and they cripple your defenses with whinges of freedom and patriotism."

Matt wants to laugh at the pronunciation of "patriot" that rhymes with "Matt," but laughing probably won't keep the world from sliding sideways, which it seems really intent on doing at the moment.

"What good will all your freedom do when Death makes her appearance, hmm? If you are lucky, your nations will turn to ash and the rotten remnants of your tattered corpses will adorn the palace of the Mad Titan as he reaches out his claws to claim every living thing in existence for his bridal gift."

There's a tangible buzz in the air as the stranger kneels before Matt, pulls his mask from his face, and holds his head in both hands. Matt can see those twin green fires again, though the rest of the world has disappeared from all his remaining senses. He's more sober than he's ever felt in his life, and his mind is so clear it _hurts_.

"You asked me my name once. Time grows short, and truths must be told. I am Loki. I am Loki of no land, Loki of no kin, Loki of no allegiance." Loki's voice is low and smooth and strong. "I am Loki, and I will not allow the realms to fall to the whims of an adolescent infatuation with Death!"

"Right," Matt gasps. "Got it." He's standing, now, somehow, and has no idea when that happened. This Loki guy still has his hands wrapped around Matt's head, though, in a way that is more power than intimacy, and Matt thinks maybe he should do something about that while there's still a head to worry about. He pulls in a breath of foul city air and places his own hands around Loki's.

He doesn't know what to ask first. Why me? What the hell are you talking about? What are you? "Are you hungry?" is what he says.

Loki hesitates. Grins. Matt takes it as a sign that his head's not about to be crushed. Then his knees give out and Loki's arm under his is all that keeps the fearsome Daredevil from face-planting.

"Mortals," Loki grouses, but there's no heat behind it.

"Yeah," Matt agrees. Because really, what is there to say?


	4. Chapter 4

Loki doesn't need directions to get Matt to his apartment, and in other circumstances that might be worrisome. Right now, though, Murdock's just satisfied to be with his silk sheets and have more of his blood on the inside than outside. The sheets are still in the other room, though, because Matt is sitting on his sofa with a bowl of stew and someone claiming to be a Norse god.

They sit in the nowhere-near-darkness of the electronic billboard's glow, and Matt tilts his head, weighing the question before he asks it. It might sound insane, but, well, _Norse god in the living room_ , puts a little perspective on the matter of crazy. "Are your eyes green?"

"Usually, yes."

Right. That's informative. But the stew is fantastic.

"Did you see them?" Loki asks.

"Uh. Well. Not so much." Except that he did. It shouldn't be possible, but he kind of did see them. Kind of.

Loki tips his head back and considers. Nods. Keeps whatever conclusion he's drawn to himself. "You take no sides in this 'Civil War' so recklessly being waged. Have you not been sought? A man of your talents might be useful in such a struggle."

Matt shrugs. "It's not really my area." He's pretty sure they know about him. He's pretty glad they don't care.

"Yes," Loki says. He doesn't elaborate.

"You didn't sound too impressed with them."

"No."

"Personal experience? I mean, if you're _the_ Loki of myth and legend," Matt can't help but say "myth and legend" a little too dramatically, and he can tell "Loki" doesn't approve, but he continues, "then you're in the same pantheon as Thor, right? If he's the real deal, too, anyway."

"We know each other, yes."

And oh, wow, but Matt can hear a craftily concealed emotional time bomb under that response. He knows he should back away from this subject. Slowly and with great caution. Then again, Loki obviously didn't want Matt to be able to tell there was anything wrong there, so maybe it would be best to pretend not to notice. It's not the first time being a human lie detector has been awkward, but it might be the first time it could get him killed.

He concentrates on the stew and feigns disinterest. It's not that hard, really. Since that drink wore off, he's tired and hungry and about a pint low. There's crime on his streets and Loki's grand speech about death and corpses is not something Matt's forgetting anytime soon. He's never liked politics, and getting involved in the maneuverings of superpowered space gods seems like an especially bad idea. It's not even the sort of bad idea he's normally inclined toward, unlike, say, running across rooftops in a costume to fight thugs or antagonizing multiple groups of organized crime. At the same time.

"What you said back there, does that have anything to do with why you're - doing whatever it is you're doing with me?"

"What do you think I am doing with you?"

"Besides," he waves his hand in the general direction of his own definitely not bleeding neck, "this? You're keeping track of me. And you put me on notice. At the coffee shop. You wanted to make contact, see how I would react, let me know that you know. About me."

There's no verbal response from Loki, but there's a reason why silence is considered assent in law.

"Is this - when you - back there, you were talking about larger forces and Titans and Death," and Matt's still a little creeped out by being able to _hear_ Loki's capitalization of Death. It reverberates in his skull in a way that isn't at all related to getting knocked around earlier. "It sounds… big."

Loki's still not speaking, but Matt knows he's listening very carefully. He can feel the weight of green eyes on him. He can feel the expectant energy under the deceptive languor of Loki's sprawled pose.

"I'm not a soldier or a superhero. I don't have money and technology. I'm not a spy. I'm a lawyer. A blind lawyer who gets into fights and gets his neck sliced open. I doubt I can do anything you can't, if you are who you say you are. So tell me, Loki," and wow, saying that name out loud makes this evening's surreality come into focus. Matt has to pause and remind himself of everything he knows about this not-man to even begin to consider that any of this could be true.

He takes a breath and begins again. "Loki, what is it you think I can do for you?"

"We shall see, I suspect," is the affable answer. He straightens himself, leaning forward and speaking quietly so Matt feels the need to lean in, as well. The humor has left Loki's voice. "A man who senses beyond sight, who is not fooled by his eyes - such a man might prove useful. And if this man is not blinded by obedience or loyalty to a narrow cause, but knows the darkness for what it is and is willing to meet it on its own terms; will act when it is necessary to protect his people - that man will, perhaps, not be distracted by petty earthly interests when the time comes to act."

Loki leans back and readopts his calculatedly casual air. "And in return, I may be able to offer certain… incentives. Perhaps even aid, of a sort."

"Aid. Incentives. What exactly are you talking about? And what are you trying to get me into?"

"You have loved ones, yes? People you care about and would not have harmed?" Matt isn't tired anymore. His exhaustion takes a back seat to the intense focus required to wipe every reaction from his face and frame. He channels the terror and rage into keeping himself from attacking this creature who would hold Foggy and Karen and anybody else over his head to make him do their bidding.

"Ah, yes. I see. But you do not see. I do not threaten these people. I offer you a… better chance, let's call it, for their safety."

"What are you talking about?"

"Where were they, these people, when the sky opened over New York and rained destruction upon your city?" Matt doesn't answer. He knows a rhetorical question when he hears one. Loki pulls his flask out from somewhere that Matt is certain hadn't existed a moment ago and takes a pull. "Would you like some?" he offers.

Matt knows this game. The powerful man taking his time with niceties while urgent matters loomed.

"Sure," he says, reaching for the container. He takes it and sets it on the coffee table without drinking. Loki cocks his head and Matt can feel the satisfied smirk being directed his way. It's eerie to know these things, and he wonders how Loki projects it so well that a blind man could "see" his smile. He wonders how he could ever tell fact from fiction if Loki chose to lie.

"I was there," Loki continues. "I was at the center of it all, a part of plots upon plans that you could not even imagine and of which no one besides myself will ever know." He humphs. "The Battle of New York, you call it." His voice darkens, and Matt remembers what stars looked like on a moonless night far from the City's glare when his father had taken him upstate that one time. His mind shows it to him now, but in a comfortless, soundless frozen vacuum.

"It was a kitten swatting at a pretty bauble on a string. The tiger approaches. When it arrives, it will not merely be with a clumsy and mindless Chitauri army. A weapon is being assembled which is beyond your understanding. The time, the warning gained in your Battle of New York is being squandered by fools."

Loki pauses, and when Matt inhales, he realizes he had been holding his breath as he listened.

"Matthew, your world may be destroyed. It will certainly be damaged, perhaps beyond recognition. I offer your loved ones passage to another land, that they may be spared the worst of it. Or at least delay their demise, should we fail to stem the tide. I offer you training, should you prove able, to better prepare you for what is to come."

"And in return?"

"Your obedience, when the time comes and terrible decisions must be made. Your dedication to destroying the approaching threat, though the world condemn you for aligning yourself with a cause of mine." Loki smiles, "And your charm and wit to act in the public eye when I cannot."

"This is something I'll regret, isn't it?"

The smile widens enough for Matt to actually hear the muscles slide lips from teeth. "Only should you survive. So probably not."


	5. Chapter 5

Matt doesn't see Loki again for almost a month, though he does find a ceramic pot of stew in his refrigerator after returning in the early morning hours from a particularly frustrating evening chasing down a gunman who was very good at quickly hot-wiring cars. A crystal bottle of that refreshingly herby liqueur Loki shared with him sits on the counter after another bout of blood loss. It's real crystal, and beautifully cut. Matt wonders what it looks like; if it's clear or colored. There some things even his super-senses can't tell him, and it's not like he can show it to Foggy and ask for a description. The day after Matt finishes the bottle, it's gone when he gets back from work.

He still hasn't given Loki a definitive answer. He's not sure what his answer will be. He doesn't trust himself to be able to distinguish truth and lies when it comes to the demigod, but his gut tells him that Loki is right about the approaching danger.

Superheroes continue to make news and Matt continues his patrols. He and Foggy eke out enough for rent, groceries, and nights at Josie's bar. It's not half bad. Considering.

Matt smells Loki before he hears him, and that tells Matt something impressive about Loki's stealth. Over the incense and candle wax, the sweat and wood polish, that definitively Loki scent of earth and herb and leather reaches Matt before the sound of steady but soft steps approaches from the front of the church. He can hear Loki turn and imagines him regarding his holy competition on the crucifix. Then Loki resumes his progress to the pew and sits beside Murdock.

"A god in a church?" Matt says quietly, too aware of the way sound carries in this place. "Someone should write this down."

Loki seems more relaxed this time than last, but even now there's a subtle energy around him that makes Matt's ears twitch. He wants to roll his neck and shoulders, stretch his arms, shake away the tightening of his muscles. He turns his head so he would be looking at Loki if his eyes worked.

"Do gods believe in G-d?"

"Some of us are aware of a higher… order to the universe."

Matt smiles. "That's almost a straight answer."

"I have always had an affection for what your people might call the 'scenic route' to the truth," Loki responds.

"That implies you always end up at the truth, in the end. That's not entirely consistent with your reputation."

"Mmm. Rather like an attorney, then, is it not? If I do not advocate my cause, who will? I do not currently have the luxury of a cadre of willing sycophants and apologists."

Matt almost laughs. "The patron saint of lawyers, then?" Loki tenses, but Matt can't help himself. He does have the devil in him, after all. "Sorry. God of lawyers."

"The insolence of humanity might be refreshing, were it not paired with an arrogance to rival Asgard's. An arrogance that is ill-earned." Matt feels the movement of air that denotes a sweep of Loki's arm to gesture at the icons of the Church. "This religion of yours, it preaches humility? It blesses the meek and calls on Man to bow humbly before the One Being which is greater than yourself?"

Matt folds his hands over the top of his cane. "Yes." He sees where this is going, but wants to hear Loki make the argument.

"Hubris," Loki says. "Have you any idea how many sentient species exist? Knowing nothing of the universe, you have decided that you - _you_ \- in your squalid, fetid, ignorance, are the reason for all existence, are surpassed only by the Creator itself in excellence."

"You don't sound angry about it," Matt observes. It surprises him a little. He'd thought Loki might have more of a temper. "It's more like… resigned disgust."

Loki huffs a short laugh. "Yes. Apt."

They sit in silence for a while, and Matt examines the being beside him. The heartbeat is fast, even at resting rate. The muscles sliding under skin are slightly… off, as though the fibers are knitted together differently. Loki's body temperature is slightly cooler than most, but it wouldn't be noticeable if Matt weren't looking for it. The bones - old breaks have healed strong, and there are many, many patches on the skeleton. This is a man - in a sense - who has seen battle, been in the thick of it, and survived. He has known pain, that is clear.

There's something that permeates Loki, too. It's as though that energy flows through him from an unknown source and envelopes him. Half-forgotten articles and television shows on multiple dimension theories come to mind, but Matt's never had a scientific bent. He works with words when he's not working with fists.

Matt realizes with a start that the energy is moving, gathering, and coalescing. It reaches towards him and takes shape, like a coiled snake, ready to strike. It bends on itself and now gives the impression of healing hands ready to soothe a wound, before wisping out into delicate tendrils capable of subtle manipulations. It all takes place in the span of about three seconds, then draws back into Loki's space.

Drawing in a breath, Matt re-establishes his awareness of the rest of his surroundings. He chastises himself to not allow Loki's weirdness to distract him. Before he can speak, Loki begins.

"It is a manipulation of energy. That you can detect it is… unusual. And valuable. Potentially." Loki turns his head to Matthew. "I doubt you will ever be capable of more than an extremely rudimentary grasp of control over these forces. You are primitive creatures, after all. But even such a small advantage will be more than -" Loki's heartbeat stutters, though his words only pause minutely, as though simply searching for the correct expression, "HE will expect."

"Who is HE?" Matt asks. For some reason, there's a sour taste in his mouth he can't place, and a dread weighting his limbs.

"HE is old," Loki answers. "Older than you can imagine. And powerful. And mad." Loki seems to shake something off, then. "We can discuss the Enemy later. First, however, there are more practically applicable skills you might learn." He stands, and Matt follows suit. "Your home, then. It is as good a place as any to begin."


End file.
